


When the Devil's After Your Arse... (oh, and your skill set)

by SpeculativeCorvid, Unseen_Academical



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Jim helps, Basically a "how they met" story, First Meetings, Flirting, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, M/M, Sebastian Moran Swears, Sebastian kills like 5 people, Sherlock RP, Some violence but not super graphic just normal Jim Seb killing people, enemies to lovers?, excessive flirting, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeculativeCorvid/pseuds/SpeculativeCorvid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unseen_Academical/pseuds/Unseen_Academical
Summary: Getting kidnapped and offered a job? Basically a normal day for Sebastian Moran.But the little shite in front of him doesn't seem to want to take no for an answer... And what was that saying again? Don't make deals with the devil?Well... Getting drinks wouldn't be considered a deal, would it?If so... He was fucked.((This is a Roleplay between Unseen_Academical and SpeculativeCorvid. After finishing it, we decided to edit and post it for you all! Enjoy some excessive flirting and some violence.))
Relationships: Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	1. Little Shite's Offer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a roleplay between Unseen_Academical (Jim Moriarty) and SpeculativeCorvid (Sebastian Moran). If you liked it, please check out the other works we've done together!

His head hurt like he’d be walloped with a belaying pin, for a long blistering moment he thought he might have the world’s worst hangover. Which was really saying something, because it took a hell of a lot to get him knock-out drunk and Sebastian couldn't remember drinking after he got home.

Actually...

He couldn't remember getting home at all. He'd finished the Davidson job, popped the little bastard from two blocks away, got the confirmation of the wire transfer... Posted that he was free for more work on that damn 'message' board. Whatever happened to classy hitmen who used business cards? Now he got emails and texts, half of them spam, a third of them porn bots, and maybe three or four actual jobs. And out of those, maybe one would be interesting enough to take. He'd gotten into a cab and then...

And then some asshole had shoved a needle in him and he'd knocked the little shit out cold, but some big guy with tribal tats had swung at him and the drugs had kicked in and... and now he was blindfolded. Tied to a chair with hands behind his back, his ankles strapped to the legs of the chair. Son of a bitch, he fucking hated blindfolds … There was always that brief hint of a flashback, a taste of panic he had to breathe through. Hot sand and burning sun, the splash of water on a cement floor, the blood running down his--

Focusing on the plus side...

With most people being taken to an unknown destination blindfolded meant while the situation was dire, there was a chance they might let you leave again. He had enough experience with that. Which is why when the bag was yanked off his head he was glad, because it meant it that the assholes might let him live. He blinked at the sudden brightness, trying to take in his surroundings. Hmm. Plenty of assholes. And that one might be the lead asshole. He'd kill him first. "Most people at least buy me a drink before taking me home and tying me up, sweetheart." A crooked smile and confident eyes, despite the throbbing in his head and the heaviness of his tongue.

\--

The hangar was big, that much was certain from the echo that got back to him. This kind of place had a way to make you feel emptiness. Which was why the sudden unnatural silence that washed over the definitely not empty hangar after his little show-off move was all the more stifling. He doesn't wince, but in terms of narrative, it would have been an appropriate moment to do so. _Just sayin'._

It was easy to figure the lead arsehole, as the attention of every single goon had wearily turned to a smartly dressed little man. Posh, poncy, and dramatic with his face half-hidden in the shadows but kept in a practiced stillness. Frankly, he doesn't look like much, but Sebastian’s not gone around for so long in this field not to gather he’s probably just sassed some very important man. The quiet stillness holds for a couple more seconds as tension builds palpably in the room. A guard shifts uncomfortably to his right.

Then the man lets a desperate hiss go, his whole feature taking life as his face crumbles in something between frustration and irritation, with a snip of disbelief. Seb would have not believed it possible but somehow the tension in the room got up a notch. It got a feel to it now. Any higher and he'll be able to slice it like a piece of cake.

“One sentence." The man whined in a surprisingly high pitched voice." One fucking sentence.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, his interlocutor walks up to him, keeping some distance still. “All it takes to ruin a perfect, balanced, good mood I had been working on since this morning.” His voice was dancing madly between highs and low and it would have been comical if it really, really wasn’t, because on this voice was clearly ridding unhinged murder.

“Lucky for you, Mr. Moran, I went through a lot of trouble to be here…” The man pauses at that, seemingly thinking it over. Or for the drama. Sebastian was in favor of the second hypothesis by large. “Namely taking a taxi, so I am not going to have you skinned right away. You get. _One_. Other. Sentence." He gave him a wide smile that didn't reach the two little pools of black that passed as his eyes." Go ahead!” He quipped playfully.

The wide grin that spreads on the man’s lips was disturbing enough to get the point across if the speech had failed to do so. He very, very probably wasn't joking.

\--

Yup, definitely the lead asshole. Pouncy suit, nice hair. Totally got everyone scared shitless, got that sing-songy 'people should care what I think' attitude. Little guy too, prolly a classic case of 'daddy didn't love me enough so I became a criminal', boohoo. White-collar crime in a suit. Shame the little fucker had that perfect ratio of crazy/hot going for him, though Sebastian doubted they'd have ever met anywhere else. Grindr, maybe? The guard beside him shifted and moved away, a completely ridiculous move. This guy clearly had to be unhinged if he thought it was a good idea to make his own security scared of him. Fear begets fear; a man who was afraid of you wouldn't die _for_ you. Loyalty and respect made men die for you.

One more sentence. Sebastian Jacque Moran was not an idiot. He'd gotten top marks as Eton and Oxford, he'd sailed through officer training in record time. However clever he was, there was something else that outweighed that. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, a complete and utter cocky bastard with a death wish and a hard-on for anything that might get him killed. Hell, he'd joined the army to go blow shit up in the mud.

One little Irish shite with a suit that cost more than his flat's rent for a year? Not scary. Even if those eyes were cold and black like a shark's, or that smile wide and toothy. Little Shite (that's what he named him in his head) looked like he would rip out Sebastian's liver with his teeth and make Seb love every second of it. "Skinnin' me?" He tilted his head, ignoring the wave of dizziness at the action and the way the man beside him tightened his grip on the pistol in his holster. "Oh fuck, darlin', why didn't you say so at the start?" His crooked smile grew broad, a wide grin and the tip of his tongue poked between straight teeth, "Safe word's 'begonia', but don't let that stop the fun."

They'd zip-tied his hands, the idiots. Enough leverage against his wrist and the metal of the chair and he could snap it. Hurt like a bitch but he'd snapped zip-ties before. The ankles were a different story, he'd need more than just leverage for those... Well, if he got his hands free he could grab Tats' gun, dumb fuck was flashing it and standing too close to him. Three shots would get the main guys down and if Little Shite had gone through so much effort for him, they might hesitate to fire back immediately. Might not even hang around, depending on how much they valued their lives. Sebastian flexed his hands, testing the slack. Not much. Not yet. His day had been routine and boring, his _life_ had been boring since his discharge. At least getting kidnapped was a little bit of fun.

\--

Even if his feature remained perfectly the same, the word seemed to spark a fire within the two black pebbles of the man’s eye. The shark smile took a positively playful and hungry turn.

“Oh, I _like_ you,” He drawled, bending straight at the waist, hands in his pockets and his eyes unwaveringly fixed on the ex-soldier. “Sadly,” and his face just shifted to a slightly sorry and oh so common expression (he could have been your newly recruited clerk telling you that _no, - he could not help you, sir_ ) – “being sinfully hot is not quite enough to fill the bill.” He scrunched his nose comically, before producing a knife from his pocket and snapping the blade open.

_Well, those were mood swings if he ever saw any._

He closed the distance between them, crouching in front of him, effectively canceling any height difference and forcing the impression even, that he was small.

“I need a little more than that you’ll gather.” He ran the blade along the jawbone of the tied soldier, seemingly transfixed. The blade was sharp enough to shave what little stumble had grown there, but it seemed the little man knew his way since it never broke the skin. Which was by far more worrisome than if he had slipped clumsily. That would have been normal and expected from that kind of priss.

“How sharp are your claws tiger?” He murmured idly, his pupils blowing 1wide. He let the arm holding the knife fall down and brought his face to the ear of the soldier, ending the whisper, _“Show me, hum?”_

And in a smooth motion, he cut down the rope retraining both his feet and jumped backward with a laugh, to give the man a wide berth.

\--

Sebastian wasn't sure if it was a good thing that crazy-as-fuck Little Shite liked him, or if he should just accept his fate now. Either way, he was pretty sure Little Shite liked him in the way that a person might 'like' a particular houseplant. A casual fondness but no regrets about throwing it away. 'Sinfully hot', that was a nice boost for his confidence though...

The real worrisome thing was when he leaned in, scraping the side of his face with that wickedly sharp knife. Not the knife itself, no. Sebastian wasn't worried about the man actually killing him, not when Little Shite hadn't even brought up the point of why he was here... What worried him was the casual mention, the casual dropping of the nickname. 'Tiger'. Someone did their research then. He hadn't thought this was a casual, 'pick up someone hot and bring'em here' job, but... The reference to his SAS call sign, that was a purposeful jab. Colonel Sebastian Jacque 'Tiger Jack' Moran, dishonorably discharged from Her Majesty's Special Air Services. His files were under lock and key, call signs kept locked behind wall after wall of security. No one wanted to risk the nation's enemies figuring out who did what job.

Which made it worrisome that this man, this sharp and sleek little devil with those large glowing eyes, had that information. And he wanted Sebastian to know he had it. Claws... Show him his claws? Fine. If he wanted to play, Sebastian would _play_. He just hoped Little Shite was quick enough to make the chase fun.

The second his legs were free he moved, tensing the muscles in his hands and balling his fists, snapping them hard against the zip-ties and the chair, the plastic ties snapping under the leverage. Tats had the sense to at least move away when Little Shite released him, but Sebastian was quick for his size; sniper reflexes honed over thirteen years of training. He grabbed his wrist with one hand, pulling the pistol with the other, jamming it against his ribs and fired.

Tats went down with a scream; he'd bleed out for sure (if the massive hole in his lungs didn't kill him first) and Sebastian spun and with two more shots took out the skinny bloke who'd drugged him, a neat shot in the center of his head and one in his chest just to be sure. A third guy managed to draw his gun, but Sebastian was already halfway over to him by the time he managed to aim and the man was smart enough to know when to abandon his gun and go for brute strength. Smart Guy took the opportunity to leap at him, attempting to throw his arms around Sebastian's shoulders, but the soldier turns at the last second. He half-ducks, slamming his shoulder into the man's stomach, sending him down onto his back on the cement floor. It's over already then, Sebastian has him, arms pulled behind his back in a hard hold. Maybe he should go easy on the guys, it wasn't _their_ fault their boss cared so little about them... But then Little Shite's shark-grin flashes in his head, that low purring voice, and his mind is made up. Sebastian pulls on them roughly, a loud crack echoing in the room and Smart Guy howls, screaming, his arms broken and useless.

It all happened in a blur and Sebastian drops the shattered limbs, snagging the man's pistol and aims it at the devil, cocking back the safety. With a predator's leering smile he grins, blue eyes dark and hungry. "I won't shoot you immediately," he says, his voice a low purr, mocking the man with a twist of his own words earlier. "You get one sentence."

\--

The little man stood idly still in front of him, in stark contrast to his previous little show. But something was off. It was not the stillness of a deer caught in a flashlight, tensing at the prospect of imminent and probably painful death. He was obviously bat shit crazy, but apparently lacked some form of basic survival instinct as well. Or did he? The room was full of nooks, crates, and shadows. Any halfway decent marksman could be holed up and waiting for a signal. Why they would be waiting he would hopefully discover soon.

The priss looked like he was ticking boxes in his head. As crazy as it sounded, it was precisely what it looked like. Seemingly done ticking and satisfied, he bounced back and forth on the ball of his feet.

“Holidays are to be notified in advance,” his face scrunched in mild annoyance, “Christmas is always _soooo_ busy and it’s making things hell to organize.”

He looked at the ex-soldier expectantly, like the situation was the epitome of mundane, and an armed gun was not standing in between them, pointing at his head. Perfectly. Normal. Day.

\--

Batshit crazy. Bag of cats crazy. The man was so painfully, obviously insane, something must have snapped into that pretty little head of his a long time ago because he didn't so much as _blink_ when Sebastian pointed the gun at him. The fact that he had just killed two men and crippled a third didn't even seem to phase the little fucker.

Holidays? What--?

Oh. The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning and he scowled. This had been an interview. Christ, what a way to scout talent. Lose three men to maybe gain one. Although those three wouldn't even have half as much worth as he had... There was only one downside to Little Shite's plan.

Sebastian didn't _want_ a job.

Well, okay, that wasn't true. He needed the work the same way a heroin addict needed another hit. The thrill of the hunt, the chase, the kill. The skill and adrenaline rush from pitting his skills against another, proving himself time and time again. Sebastian _needed_ a job. Sebastian did not _want_ a boss. He had done that, been bossed around before. 'Insubordinate' was a common word in his files. 'Trouble with authority' was another phrase used to describe him. He had placed his trust in men like the crazed fucker in front of him before; worked for them, killed for them. He had spent thirteen years being a gun that someone else pointed. And every single time he'd been thrown away or tossed under the tracks when shit went south.

No more. No _fucking_ more.

He was not ever going to work for someone, especially not some trumped-up arse with a slick smile and a fancy suit. Especially not some fucker who thought his men's lives were disposable. He was a loyal man, but when Sebastian had his loyalty betrayed he didn't just burn bridges: he burned _cities_. This little piece of shit had it written all over him, the callous attitude towards his own men's suffering. Sebastian was not going to ever end up like Smart Guy had. Not again.

Sebastian lowered the gun and with a smooth, practiced motion, ejected the clip and emptied the round in the chamber. "Yeah. Not interested. Coulda saved you the mess of cleaning this shit up." His tone was cool, losing the interested nature he had earlier, a big cat done toying with its meal as he gestured with the gun towards the bodies on the floor. "Full offense meant, Little Shite, but you're not worth my time." He dropped the clip on the floor and tossed the gun at the slick devil in a suit, turning on his heel, not bothering to see if he caught it, before heading towards the door.

\--

The only warning he got was a high pitched hiss before white-hot pain flared in his shoulder. Working the muscle around was agony because a fuckin’ blade was embedded still in the flesh. He swore curses that would have made his old regiment buddy blush. Had Little Shit really thrown his fucking knife at him? He was about to turn around with the definite intention of bashing his precious little skull down to earth, probably getting in some common sense for the few last seconds of his life when a kick got him in the crook of the knees, effectively sending him tumbling forward the floor.

The little shit was fast. Duly noted. But there was only so much surprise could grant you. That’s what he had in mind, trying to get hold of the squirming, lith frame that for some reason had elected for close combat with a man twice his size and built. That is, before cold metal pressed against his throat _AGAIN_. How many fucking knives did the little shit carry around? It’s not like his close-fitted suit left much room to hide things. And this time he wasn’t playing, Sebastian noticed as warm blood started pooling in the crook of his neck. He groaned, not too happy with himself. Turning your back to this crazed little menace was admittedly not his brightest move so far, and god knows he had fucked up big time in the past. Said little menace was now straddling him with an almost animalistic sneer, very very far from the posh if unnerving persona he had presented so far. His pupils were blown wide, eating away what little color was there. The blade dug a little deeper still.

“I don’t force anybody to work for me. You could have gone back to your pathetic life, continue to execute the contracts I send your way. It would have been FINE!” He yelled. He noticed Moran’s double-take at his sentence and gave a dry chuckle. “What did you think, Moran? That high ends contract just pops on these dirty little platforms you scout? Well, they don’t.” He added with a dose of acidic sarcasm. “I’ve had my eyes on you for quite some time you know. You’re good. Too good for your own benefit. That led me to you after all.” He smiled a little, an almost shy thing on his demented face. “Bad. Luck.”

\--

Jesus FUCK his shoulder hurt like a bitch, thank god it was his off arm, or he'd be even more pissed. Recovering time was shit when you kept fucking the wound up shooting.

"You're fucking _psycho_ , you little cunt!" He shouted, feeling the knife dig into his neck. Slimy bastard, absolutely bag of cats crazy stuffed in a suit, tackling an ex-SAS soldier with nothing more than a knife and a big attitude. The man barely weighed anything soaking wet. "If they came from you, then you can keep your jobs. I don't want'em." He snarled, fury boiling in his veins. No one fucking _touched_ him, not without his permission. Especially not some trumped-up little Irish motherfucker with eggs for brains.

The thing that made Sebastian so damn good at his job, at getting those 'suicide' missions done? His complete lack of self-preservation. He'd bite off his nose to spite his face, and he'd let a knife dig into his throat just because it made this fucker think he was in control. That was the thing, too. No one was in control of him. Little Shite was straddling his chest, eyes wide and mad and smile almost a little coy and flirty and Sebastian bent his legs, planting his feet against the cement floor. With a quick, fluid motion and a hell of a lot of faith that this crazy son of a bitch had a good handle on his knife skills, he rolled them.

One hand shot out to grab onto the Irishman's free hand, the other still digging the knife into his neck and he could feel it slice deeper as they rolled, but he was right on the self-control and it stayed just barely shallow enough, the blood beading and running down his neck. Fuck. He liked this shirt. Sebastian was straddling the smaller man's waist now, a hand holding his opponent free arm above his head, his weight pinning him to the floor. The knife still pressed against his neck and it dug in deeper when he leaned in, lips drawn back in a snarl, blue eyes dark with barely disguised anger. "If you had your eyes on me, then you'd have known I don't take the boring jobs. Either get more interesting you paddy son-of-a-bitch, or get the _fuck_ out of my way."

His snarl turned more into a crooked, almost-charming grin if it weren't for the number of teeth being shown. He lowered his head and put his teeth to the pale throat. His jaws were right over his windpipe. "It would take you a while to die if I bit down now." Sebastian's voice rumbled into his throat, "I killed a man like this, you know. Held his throat in my teeth 'til I felt his life run out. Never gets boring." In an almost flirty, somewhat taunting manner he licked a broad stripe on his throat. There really wasn't much that was funner than risking death, especially if it came from a crazed kinda-hot dude. "You'd cut my throat, but... wonder if you could kill me faster than I could bite. Might not kill you too, but you'd lose that lovely voice of yours."

\--

The man burst a laugh, making the skin vibrate against Moran’s lips.

“Oh, put two and two together Moran, there is a reason I want you IN. There are only so many jobs I can leak _OUT_ for you to sniff out. The interesting ones…” he smirked gleefully, “I got to be a teensy bit cautious about them.”

God, didn’t he ever shut up? He was, quite literally, at his throat an inch from ripping the pale expenditure of flesh open and the other was… Giggling?

He must have frozen, let it be because the speech registered to him, or the giggle got to his… let’s say brain. Little Shit gave a taunting scoff, arching his light frame against him and shifting his head backward, baring his neck shamelessly.

“Come on,” he taunted in a metallic and sharp, ringing tone, “harder kitten.” Followed by a gleeful laugh. He had taken the opportunity of the distraction to shift the blade to the back of his neck, cutting his retreat option. Sneaky Shit.

At this point, the tension wasn’t _palpable_. No no no, at this point, tension had grown a full-fledged personality, slapped them both and told them to calm the fuck down, before crumbling into a hysteric after noticing none of them gave a damn fuck.

Thankfully, that’s the moment Smart Guys chose to shift and give a pained grown, snapping a part of Moran’s attention to register the potential menace. But the poor sod really wasn’t up to much. A shadow fell on the crazy fuck’s face at the sound, more akin to cold anger than the blatant irate rage Sebastian had sparkled. He must have split a lip when Sebastian turned them over, and more than a little blood (be it his own or Sebastian’s) was now smearing his face and crumpled dress shirt.

“Dead men walking the lot of them. You see Mr. Moran, Dan and his friends have recently fucked up big time. Blown their cover spectacularly. _Huuuge_ cock up on their part.” And he shifted his hips just so, along with the icy sneer. “But I am used to it. I would have covered it up, got them sorted out.” He gave a dry laugh. “ _Nonono_ , where they went wrong is, they pissed their pants and tried to negotiate their way out by selling out information about me.” He paused. “Not that they knew anything of significance mind you. But you know officials, they get so desperate.”

He turned his head to Smart Guy. “Thing is, you got to be _halfway_ intelligent to be a mole, Dan.” He sing-songed dryly.

He snapped his eyes back to Moran’s, two pools of black with dancing lights of madness. But something else shone there. Behind the theatrics and apparent death wish, Little Shit was smart. A smart, manipulative bastard.

\--

Oh, don't arch and squirm against him like that. Sick little fuck was either trying to flirt with death (literally) or distract him, though he was partially hopeful of the first. People always said he flirted with death. Really, Sebastian would correct them, he didn't flirt with death. He deep-throated that fucker’s scythe behind a Tesco.

No! Bad Moran! Down boy, now is _not_ the time to think with your dick. “Really...?” Sebastian gave a light, teasing nip at his jugular, leaving a small red mark. He’d not wanted to _kill_ the man, fuck knows when he’d find something as fun as this again. Smart cats kept their toys around to play with, and Sebastian was a rather smart cat. “Shame for them that their boss is so clever.”

He had to get out of this without escalating it further. The room was large and dark and anyone with half a brain would have people posted, especially if this guy was that fucking important. And clever, he could see it in those dark eyes. Coal dissolved into a salt sea; intelligence flicking like sharks just below the surface. Sebastian wanted to dive deep into those eyes and let those sharks rip him apart...

Except that was very, very stupid.

Sebastian was very, very stupid. Little Shite moved and cut off his escape, the knife angled to slice into his spinal cord if he tried to pull back. Sneaky fucker. Clever sneaky fucker. Okay... Maybe it might be worth listening to the recruitment speech.

And maybe he just wanted to get out alive.

“You know,” Sebastian purred, leaning back from his throat until he felt the sharp point of the knife digging into his neck. “We might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Little Shite.” A risky move that, but he was a risky man. He had one hand still pinning the man’s free arm down and he slid his other along his chest, the silk smooth against his calloused hand. “Daddy didn't teach you how to make friends, huh?” He mocked, his hand moving up to cup his jaw. Sharp eyes locked with his own and Sebastian grinned broadly, “We can work on that.” He dipped his head in, brushing his lips against the other man’s, then closing that distance in a rough and brutal kiss.

He was messy and rough, nipping and biting and Sebastian eased his hand away from his jaw and up to the wrist holding the knife, his thumb rubbing circles on the smooth skin over his pulse. An almost caring, seductive move.

And then he gripped tight and twisted and the wrist popped from its socket with a sick pop and he broke the kiss, leaning back as the knife slid from the Irishman’s fingers.

“Give me a call, we can discuss my terms over dinner.” A cocky smile as he stood.

\--

The dislocation wrenched a painful, surprised yelp from the pinned man, his whole body tensing up. After a second, he managed to collect himself enough to unclench his jaw, letting a seething hiss escape.

“You. _Absolute_. _**Cock**_.” He took a breath. “Fuckin’ bastard.”

“Give me a call, we can discuss my terms over dinner,” Moran replied with a cocky smile as he stood.

It seemed like all motivation had drained from the little man’s, as he let Sebastian go up to his feet without twitching so much as a muscle. He looked drained, sprawled on the floor, his suit rumpled and ruined by blood and grim. He didn’t seem to mind though.

“After this little stunt, you’d better make sure it blows my mind.” He drawled.

It looked like they were done for the time being, and Moran turned wearily toward the exit, keeping an eye on the little terror… Before noticing a blond lady standing near the door. She was armed with a rifle and looking at him, white as a sheet. Without a word, she moved to unlock the door and let him out. So, the little terror had had a gunman positioned to take him down if necessary. Smart thing. And from the look on her face, her boss probably wasn’t making a habit of recruiting people this way. Moran smirked. He wasn’t the norm after all.


	2. The Devil's lips are warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a date. It's discussing a job offer. 
> 
> And if it ends with some amazing sex and Jim Moriarty climbing out a window? 
> 
> Well, at least it was a damn good date.

Little Shit had not been lying when he’d bragged to have been the one to send Moran jobs. Since the hanger incident his profile had been spammed shamelessly, demanding he’d make good on his dinner offer. Moran had not thought the man would assume _he_ would be the one to set up the dinner, but whatever. He’d picked a local pub, hoping to ruffle the posh priss’ feather with his best shot at baselessly common. And if the pub was nice and tortuous enough not to allow the other to pull the marksman’s card to keep him in check, so what?

That’s how he found himself waiting for the little terror, sitting in a comfortable nook of the pub, nursing a drink. As minutes ticked by, he started wondering if the crazed thing had left him hanging, when someone drew a chair and sat down casually.

Moran’s eyes widened up slightly and he froze in his motion to knock back his drink. How the hell could that be…

“Out of all the places you could have picked,” the memorable voice sneered, “you chose this?”

He really, really did not look like the stick in the arse man he had left in a messed-up suit in a dark hangar. Moran swallowed awkwardly. It was the little terror all right, but he was clad in tight jeans and a soft leather jacket, a tank top framing his chest. He looked, normal, verging on fragile with his wrist bandaged up to alleviate the sprain. Shit.

\--

Oh fuck Mary 'n all the saints, that was absolutely _not_ fair. Slimy little asshole peeled himself out of a suit and slithered into whatever disguise this was because there was no way in hell that piece of shit naturally wore this kinda look. That was almost _Sebastian's_ type of look, like the fucker had camouflaged himself. Hell, he was kinda matching him now, though his style was a bit gruffer. Worn leather jacket, an old band tee, torn jeans, his combat boots (with a switchblade tucked into each). His tags, of course. But Little Shite looked like he wore that kinda stuff every day, which was ridiculous.

Even worse, he looked _good_.

_Oh, mine eyes and heart are at a mortal war/ how to divide the conquest of thy sight…_ The sonnet’s lines flitted through his head as he ran a slow, appreciative gaze over Little Shite. Casual clothes. Damn. Bet he’d look even better with nothing. Oops, no, bad thoughts, not in the pub. Nope nope. Down, Moran. With a cool gaze, he downed the rest of his drink and motioned to the waitress (a young blonde, she'd been eyeing him all night and had been quick on keeping his cup filled. Maybe he'd take'er home after, depending on his luck. Depending on whether the devil let him leave alone). "And whatever my friend wants, sweetheart. Throw it on my tab." She was quick on her toes and brought him another, giving him a broad smile and a shake of her head when he winked at her, the smile and the flirt as natural as breathing.

"If you wanted a better place, shoulda picked one yourself." Sebastian shrugged, scanning the room as he did. No one had come in acting sus, at least not since he'd arrived, so unless Little Shite had some really good actors for friends, they were proper alone. "I'm a bit surprised you even showed, Little Shite. Must really want more of me." The dip in his voice implied that he didn't just mean work, and if Sebastian was honest with himself... yeah, okay. So he had a thing for danger and his self-destructive behaviors made him make plenty of bad decisions.

But goddamn, this nasty little fucker would be the _best_ bad decision ever.

\--

His eyes followed the waitress too Moran noted, but there was a kind of vacuity to it. The kind of face one makes when noticing an insect acting up strangely in front of him. Oddly enough, it didn’t give out a pedantic feeling. He wasn’t looking _down_ on her… He just looked a little lost in his own thoughts.

He swirled his whiskey slowly, obviously careful of his injured wrist (-left handed, Moran registered-). The outfit, and probably the ambiance gave him a much younger appearance than back in the hangar.

“Don’t get mistaken, I’d have you fuck me raw on this table,” he deadpanned, voice edging on regretful, “but I would hardly have bothered with a formal introduction if that’d be enough to satisfy me. I want a little more from you.” He pulled a face and downed his drink, licking his lips for the sheen of alcohol hanging there. “You really need to stop calling me that though. Point for you, it riles me up, you win.” His right hand twitched, showing that the manic energy from before was probably just running right beneath his skin, only barely contained under the calm and tranquil surface. “I’d really hate to lose my shit at you for something so stupid.” And he sounded truthful.

“But that’s my fault after all. _No name, pet name, fair game._ ” He sassed, tuning his voice up and down in a mock musical display. “My name is Moriarty. Jim Moriarty.” His eyebrow shot up. “If you laugh, I will hang you with your own guts, Mr. Moran.”

\--

Oh come _on_ , don't just say something like that... Jesus fuck, the goddamn little fucker'll end up on the table anyway if he kept talkin' like that. "Trust me," he drawled, leaning back in the chair and running his fingers around the rim of his glass, "I'd definitely be 'nough to satisfy you. Have to pass on that though. Don't get me wrong, you're totally my type, love that mad dog thing you got goin' on. But I don't think you'd be worth the trouble." Sebastian used to have two very specific rules that would have applied to this case. _Rule One: Don't stick your dick in crazy._ He'd broken that after a fucking fantastic week of leave with a crazy dominatrix bitch in Surat... _Rule Two: Don't fuck the assholes who own you._ And then he'd banged like three different superior officers and kinda tossed that rule too.

It wasn't that he thought Little S-- Jim, he corrected in his head, would be a bad lay or anything; rather the opposite. Crazy like that came once in a blue moon and it ripped your back to shreds and broke your bones. Sebastian would kill for that, but... the man _reeked_ of trouble. The kinda shit that'd fuck his life up more than it already was, and honestly? While the accent and the attitude was really doing it for him, the threat of having to _continue_ to deal with that was a turn-off. He didn't think either of them would be too happy with a one night stand, and he'd be damned if he jumped into that bed twice.

Sebastian shrugged, grabbing his glass and draining half of it. "Can't help it, you're fun. Wind'em up and watch ‘em go. I'd get used to it, best and worst part about having me around is my mouth." In every sense. The whole, 'can totally control his gag reflex' and 'never thinks before speaking' kinda go hand in hand. His mouth has gotten him into more trouble than he can count, and out of just as much trouble.

If before hadn't been 'losing his shit' then he _really_ wanted to see this guy snap. Kinda a bad thing to say though, he loved to poke buttons and this guy was a goddamn remote with everything he could jab at. Sebastian just wanted to watch those eyes glow and see him twitch more. Jesus, maybe he needed to go to therapy or something, that kind of death wish couldn't be healthy. "Moran. Or Sebastian, don't care. None of that 'Mister' bullshit though, I might have blue blood but the only time I'll take somethin' in front of my name is if you're calling me Colonel," Sebastian poked his tongue between his teeth, a teasing, charming grin. "Or Sir."

"Jim," He said, rolling the name on his tongue. He leaned towards the table, stretching a hand out. "Pleasure to meet you. Love your knife work, by the way."

\--

Jim blinked owlishly in surprise, before registering the hand and taking it. The hesitation had been discrete, but enough for Moran to notice. There was a kind of difficult contrast to pin in Jim’s behavior. He reeked of sex and contact and yet simple moves like that threw him off slightly.

Then the little man kind of lost it a little. His face shifted from disbelief to amusement to nervous glee and round again. It gave a couple of loops before collecting himself enough to speak.

“You’ve no idea who I am, am I right?” He paused to look at him. “How can you have been going around the underworld and still be so clueless?” It was an honest question, without a hint of being berating. Just honest flabbergastement.

He cracked his neck to the side, a nervous move, before continuing.

“Well, this is embarrassing. It’s been ages since I had to introduce myself and it’s become hard not to make it sound like I’m boasting. I’d tell you to make your research but _weeeelll_.” He scrunched his nose in distaste at the perspective of any more delay.

“Long story short, I make sure trouble happens. _Quality_ trouble.” He pinned his gaze on Moran, apparently done with the fidgeting. “When someone needs to poke the hornet nest, they call me. I spin things up to bring down the big ones. I craft high-end trouble. The kind of jobs I take, Sebastian,” he forced mischievously the pronunciation out, making it sound ridiculously pompous, “I can promise are _exactly_ your speed.” He finished, darting a tongue against his lips unconsciously.

He leaned toward Sebastian, a kind of excitement wrapping his whole frame. It was ludicrously alike to a kid meeting a pale he really, really wanted to play with.

“So yes, I am trouble. No way denying it. But I swear,” his eyes darted to Moran’s lips, "I am worth every ounce of it tenfold.”

\--

"Yeah, sorry. Kinda new to the whole, 'assassin for hire' deal, kinda fell into the job by accident." His smile is crooked and easy-going, it's clear that the man exudes an obvious 'harmlessness' and natural charisma, one that he's both manipulated and honed over the years. If you never saw him without his clothes, never saw the scrapbook of scars that littered over his body, it would be easy to label him 'big and friendly and sweet'. A tiger perfectly disguised as a sheep. "Really just been making it up as I go along. Glad to see I'm obviously doin' something right, if managed to catch the eye of such a big troublemaker." Sebastian says it with all seriousness, but when he brings his glass up to his lips there's a twinkle of playful teasing in his eyes.

Really, he _hadn't_ come back to London to be a killer. It had happened on accident and things had spiraled from there. An illegal fighting ring, a won bet... A man approaching him afterward saying he'd pay'em a big figure to rough up a guy... And then it had spread, and next thing he knew he'd dipped back into what he was born to do. Not on purpose. Sebastian steadfastly refused to work solely for anyone, because all the plans and strategies Moran had considered since coming back to London? Absolutely none of it included any kind of permanent employment, long-term contracts, or even retainers. He had decided he was done with being at the beck and call of... anyone at all, really.

And yet, there was no denying that steady pulsing call. The world he was made for was almost unlivable London, where it wasn't just necessary or required to kill but natural. A world not _without_ rules, but ones of war and survival, life and death, order and savagery in close proximity. He hadn't realized that he had been _born_ for it.

And he hadn't even been consciously aware of that sense of belonging until it was gone.

Even when he had a straight-laced life in London, when everything started to shift into gear nicely (before all the illegal work), his new life was defined by a sense of... loss. Drifting from what he was used to. From what every fiber of his being was honed to do. Only for the short time between the odd contract and the hit, did a sense of purpose return to him – only for the duration of the stalk, the chase, the eventual kill.

And goddamn, did he want to see what kind of jobs and work this Jim guy could give him. The man was charismatic, in a kind of twitchy, almost-hesitant, totally confident paradox of a way. He made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and made his instincts scream at him to run away. Sebastian really, really wanted to chain him to a bed and keep'im there. "Yeah, I'm kinda gettin' the vibe that you're the kinda mess I love to tangle with. But..." Sebastian leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. "We're not here to solely talk 'bout what I'd love to do to you." He cocked his head, "You've been watching me, sure you know I don't work for anyone. Why waste your time when you coulda just kept feeding me jobs on the down-low?"

\--

"One thing I told you already. Some contracts are fiddly and I can't leak them on the platforms you've been using. It's been a nightmare enough already to make up for some of the biggest security gaps to have those jobs reach out to you without being compromised." There was an evident distaste in his tone.

"Second point..." he signaled a waiter for a drink, "you've attracted attention. From the boring side. The warrant is going to be issued any day now. Had to make my move." He shrugged.

\--

“Coulda just asked for my number, darlin’,” Sebastian replies, batting his eyelashes in a playfully flirty manner. “Not my first choice of contact for work, but...” He shrugged, “Like I said, new to the work. Not like they make a ’How to be a contract killer for dummies’ or anythin’. Had to stumble my way around... Although that does bring up a good question, how does your little-” Sebastian wiggled his fingers, ”-thing work? What, you manage the decent hitmen and play the middle man?” Oh, he liked how Jim said his name, like he was tasting every vowel. Fuck.

Oh. A warrant. “They got my name then?” He paused, gnawing at his bottom lip, thinking. So _that’s_ why daddy dearest had been spamming his personal phone. Fuckin’ figures, prolly pissed that he had to clean up another one of his son’s messes. “Real sweet of you to care, but I’m good. Only good part about bein’ a Lord’s son is the obsessive desire to keep the family name outta the muck. It’ll clear up.”

“Though that doesn't answer the question of ‘why me’, though. I mean, yeah. Best shot you’ll ever find, but you read my files. Can't be worth the trouble I bring, can it?”

\--

Jim gave him a tiny, frustrated, and theatrical whine.

“Why you? Do I really have to spell it out in for you? I warn you it might get us kicked out for public indecency.” He sassed teasingly before shifting closer and dropping his voice. “You are diamond going around that shithole. Admittedly a bit of a rough one but that’s fine, I like it that way.” His eyes were fixed on him, capturing his attention in a snake-like manner. “You are a crack shot and a first-class close-ranged fighter. You’re smart. For god’s sake, you just _reek_ of competence.” And his body language made it perfectly clear how said competence made him feel. He was so close now, the waitress probably had her hopes for tonight ruined at the sight of them.

“Daddy won’t be able to pull string this time I fear,” he hushed against the shell of his ear, “you’ve attracted the attention of some very important people.” He retracted only minutely, his voice falling back to a more professional tone than the husky dangerousness he’d been skirting. “That’s why I don’t usually go for hired guns. Makes it difficult to tie loose ends.” He paused. “That’s mostly what I do now, ‘play the middle-man’ as you put it. There is a little more than that to it. I organize things, make sure jobs go right. Cover blunders.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “Jobs aren’t necessary assassinations. People come to me and I just get done what they don’t have the guts or brain to do themselves.” He smirked. “In the end, I am just being helpful, you see.”

\--

Sebastian had to swallow hard, the brush of hot air against his ear, the husky purr of that voice, dark like velvet, sharp like steel. Oh Jesus Christ he was skirting a huge fuckin’ hole and odds were he was gonna jump in. “Jesus. Sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego.” Please oh please stroke something else too.

“Yeah, okay. I might’ve pissed some big boys off, shoved my boot into their pie. But that’s...” He was losing his thoughts, this damn Jim fellow was so distracting, it should be criminal. Well, he was. Goddamn, stop _looking_ at him like that. “I’m better running solo. Hate listening to people give me shit for orders, been doing it my whole life. So other than this obvious ‘we’re gonna fuck later’ energy we got goin’ on between us, why should I go with you? I've had plenty of offers for full work. Why pick you?” Oh, even without the tension between them (thick enough that Sebastian could barely see through it), he knew he was going to end up at this prick’s beck and call. He had that natural, dominating personality and a sharp slyness that made Sebastian think of sharks and snake and tigers; Moran didn't want to work for anyone. But he was pretty sure if he agreed to anything this guy offered, it wouldn't be working. It'd be serving some sort of sicko fuck’s higher purpose.

“Careful with the touchin’, darlin’.” He warned as Jim leaned back, confident and cool, lust and greed and want burning in those damned black eyes. The waitress wasn't even bothering to flirt with him anymore, keeping it to refilling their drinks and moving on. “I’ve been picked up for public indecency twice before. Rather not make it three times. Least not here, I like this pub.”

\--

“Seems like we’ve hit a wall there. My thought is, we adjourn the negotiation. You take a taste of me,” he slithers his body closer black eyes riveted on him, “of my methods and then we get this little discussion finished. What about that, hum?” He closes the distance between them, stopping an inch from crashing their lips together only to tease the soldier’s with the ghost of a brush. “Third time’s the charm they say. Shame for the bar, it wasn't that bad.”

_**\-- They did end up being thrown out. –** _

Moran had completely lost it the moment the little devil had stopped talking, proving skilled with his tongue in so much more than silver talking. In a half-crazed heated haze, they had ended up at his apartment two blocks away, Jim pliant and coy under him. He’d given the soldier control, letting him lose his mind good and hard. Until he’d wrenched it back. The moment Moran’s attention had been lulled into confidence, the demon had flipped control back to him, clawing his way onto and into Sebastian's chest. He’d make sure to tear apart what little remnant of reserve was still taking dust there. It’d been bloody and messy and everything the tension had built up to. It only ended up with them passing out.

He’d slept like a stone. It’d been ages since he'd slept like that. Not since… Something was shaking him. Instinct kicked in and blocked the _(?)_ arm before reaching for the throat of the other in a vice-like grip.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Protested the _(?)_ little man in a high-pitched voice, both hands raised in surrender above his head. “I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep honey but we’re about to have company sooner than expected so I _reeeaally_ need you to show me the back door.”

\--

Okay, Sebastian was going to need to make a new set of rules, because he'd broken like... at least five that he could count. And goddamn, this Jim Moriarty bloke was going to make him break a whole lot more.

Rule One: Never bring'em back to your place. You've got a room full of guns, Moran.

Rule Two: No spending the night, no sleeping together. No attachments.

Rule Three: No repeats.

Rule Four: No numbers, no dates, no contact.

Rule Five: No clients or employers.

Okay, scratch _alllllll_ those rules. Because they were: 1, at his place. 2, had spent the night together. 3, were ABSOLUTELY going to do that again. 4, Jim had his number, and 5, he was totally working for this man. _Goddamnit_. He really needed to stop trying to make guidelines for his life, because it seemed like every time he had a set of rules to follow so he didn't get in trouble... he broke them immediately. Although some of them weren't solely for him, like the 'no spending the night, no sleeping together' rule. That was to prevent... well, this.

Sebastian let go of the other man's throat, giving a sheepish 'kinda-sorry-but-kinda-your-fault' grin. "Don't touch me when I'm sleepin', lucky you were close enough and I didn't go for the knife." It took way too long to shake off the night of actually decent sleep (when was the last time that happened?) and remember that 'oh, we fucked!' and then shake off the thoughts of, 'oh my god, that thing he did with the--' before realizing the words that came out of Jim's mouth. "Company? You never did say exactly _who_ was after my head, other than you, kitten." Kitten? More like a hellcat, Sebastian was pretty sure a few of those scratches on his chest and back were going to stick around for a while.

He _kinda_ wanted Jim to add more.

"Why, you gonna climb out the 4th story fire escape in nothin' but your pants?" Sebastian smirked, remembering the state that most of their clothes had ended up in. And he had _liked_ those jeans. "Lemme know in advance, I wanna film if you do. Safe to say the flat's burned then. Did you set up a dog house for your tiger to sleep in, or am I gonna need to find somewhere to go after we get outta here?" He wasn't sure which one he preferred. He kinda wanted to have a 'good' morning, kinda wanted to shoot whoever knocked on his door in the face.

Which was unfortunate, because he really didn't get the chance to decide when the sharp knock came from the front door. "Hey," He said, slipping out of the bed and grabbing a pair of discarded lounge pants, sliding them on. "Have you ever been a hostage before?" Sebastian's grin was wide and charming, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth as he grabbed the gun he kept in the drawer of his nightstand. If he had to ditch the place... well, he liked his guns. But he’d get new ones. The only one he didn't want to leave behind was the sleek, custom Colt M45A1 CQBP.

\--

Moriarty threw his head backward, letting out a small whine. He had obviously expected an answer of the sort but had really, really hoped for another. He moved in sync with Sebastian, grabbing and sliding on his half ripped jeans.

"I swear if you don't move your blooming arse faster, the only thing we're going to sleep in for a long while is a dry cell."

The door took a pounding and it became clear the gentlemen on the other side of it were losing patience.

"Punch me in the face." Moriarty spat, in evident regret but determination. At Moran's raised eyebrow he added urgently. "Emergency makeup, blood and bruise, but for god's sake don't break anything."

\--

Oh, he was pretty _and_ clever, Sebastian wouldn't have thought about 'emergency makeup'. Yeah, he'd keep this guy around. "Don't have to ask me twice, treacle." Probably shouldn't flirt with the guy as he balled his fist up, but Sebastian flirted like a fish swam. He held back from giving a real blow, just enough to make it obvious, slamming his fist into the corner of Jim's mouth, purposefully missing his teeth (cut knuckles are no joke, and the guy had a killer smile... literally). A strangled curse from Jim, but the side of his lip was split and his jaw already starting to swell.

Aw hell, the man shouldn't look so damn good with blood on his face. Fuck it, life was short and he was hot... Sebastian grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in for a rough kiss, biting at his split lip as he pulled back with a grin. Tousled bedhead looked a lot like a struggle (which it had been) and Sebastian took his thumb, smearing it across the welling bead of blood, dragging it across his jaw. "There," He said, licking the smear of blood off his thumb, "You look great, hun. Let's go kill these fucks."

Sebastian had just enough time to shove the sheep's foot knife that he kept under his pillow into Jim's hand, the other man hiding it behind his back and the front door was slammed open. He grabbed his _'hostage's'_ wrist (kinda glad he was on Jim's right side), pulling the man roughly against him as he stormed out of the bedroom. His voice was a low, commanding tone. "Stay the _fuck_ back, or I'll blow the fucker's brains out." He snarled, his arm coming up to roughly wrap around Jim's throat in a chokehold. The gun was cocked and he held the cool metal of matte-black barrel against his head, feeling the steady pulse in Jim's neck. Crazy fucker _trusted_ him, as ridiculous as it was. Maybe they were gonna be good together.

"Moran!" There were three, combat gear and MI5 patches visible. Oh, big guys. "Drop the weapon and release the hostage!" The guy in the middle said, his gun still slightly lowered. Good training, not to point a weapon at a civvy, even in a hostage situation.

Shame neither of them were civvies.

"Alright," He said, dropping the gun from the side of Jim's head, unwinding his arm from around his neck. Sebastian shrugged, almost absently, lifting his hands in a sort of 'you asked for it' manner. "But no take-backs, 'kay?" He pushed Jim forward with one hand, the man leaping into action (fuck, that was hot!), the gun already aimed at the two closest to the door. Two quick shots brought them down and he turned to watch Jim deal with his own. God _damn_! Okay, he took back his previous thought. They were _not_ gonna be good together.

They were gonna be fuckin' _**great.**_

\--

Jim gave a disgruntled huff, twisting the blade in a vicious motion before pulling it out. He’d gone for the crook of the neck, knowing the MI5 standard gear would otherwise stop the blade from sinking in the flesh. Let it be because of the hostage act or Jim’s slight frame, the guard had not registered him as a menace before it was too late, and blood was gurgling out of the severed artery.

Jim tossed the knife back to Sebastian (-handle first-) in slight irritation and discontent. Moran was sure Jim didn’t mind _killing_ , hell if the way he looked at Sebastian was anything to go by he absolutely loved it. But he probably didn’t like being shoved headfirst into uncontrolled and unplanned action.

Realization sparked as previous interactions slotted into place. The fucker was unhinged, crazy, and verged on suicidal, be it either from the kick he got from it or by the simple stubborn refusal of de-escalation. But in their game of cat and mouse, he’d always danced around him on a rhythm of his own making. Manipulative, smart, hot fucker.

Jim went to the couch and collected a couple of items from the coffee table, and it hit Moran that Jim had obviously slept there and not in his bed like he’d originally assumed. Of course, the crazy fucker would be smart enough not to sleep next to him.

“Time to get moving, honey. Take what you need and let’s leave this place.”

Sebastian snagged his gun, the discarded leather jacket and turned to the door.

“Absolutely no fucking way,” Jim spat, “we’re not going out through the front door. There will be men posted down there.” He opened the window in one, angry motion, of someone who doesn’t like what’s coming. “And I am done having a field-day. So, where is that fire escape?”

The rhetorical question was answered as he spotted the framed ladder and swung himself out the window. Sebastian tucked the gun in the loop of his belt and followed suit with a shrug. The climb wouldn’t be a problem for him not with so many handholds available. Jim was managing himself. He’d obviously done this kind of cat burglar thing before and knew tricky holds when he saw them, but he was also very obviously out of shape, struggling and his muscles shaking a bit by the end of it.

“Where is that bike of yours parked?” He drew a weary hand about his obviously slightly pissed face. “Let’s leave and never mention I was stupid enough to almost get caught for a good fuck.” He looked absolutely exhausted and just unrepentant enough.

\--

The flat was burned for sure; not that he minded too terribly. The only things he kinda regretted leaving behind were his guns... He'd just gotten a neat little custom build from a blind German guy (it'd cost him an arm and a leg, but not his) and hadn't even gotten the chance to bring it on a job! He had everything else important to him: his favorite handgun, his jacket, his tags. As sad as it was, everything else was just things. He could get new things.

Couldn't get a new Jim Moriarty, that was for damn sure. So he followed the fucker out the window, dropping down the last few feet. "How'd you know I ha-" And then he cut himself off, because _of course_ he knew he had a bike. "This way," he said, grabbing Jim's uninjured wrist, tugging him along after him. Sebastian absolutely did not care if he tired and exhausted, running on fumes. Nope, absolutely did not care at all. And the weird, sudden, instinctive desire to pick the man up and carry him when he stumbled on the uneven pavement of the alley? _Definitely_ not there.

_(Okay, maybe he cared a tiny, minuscule amount. But not for any, like, personal reasons. The guy was/was going to be his boss, of course he had to give a tiny shit about him.)_

His bike was parked around back and he was incredibly glad they'd be bringing it. It had been his pet project every time he was on leave, restoring the '90 GB500 to something usable. "Also, I'm gonna say right now that judgin' by the noises you were makin', it was a _great_ fuck, not a good one. Totally worth the mess." Sebastian grinned, tossing his leather jacket to the smaller man. "Put that on, it'll get chilly." If he had a helmet he'd have tossed it to Jim as well, but he'd never quite followed safety laws and so he straddled the bike, waiting for the man to climb on as well.

"Hold tight," He said with a grin, feeling arms loop around his waist. Yup, he was keeping Jim around for sure. "And give me directions to wherever the hell is safe."

\--

Sebastian thought Jim was making a fool of him, guiding him through narrow streets and looping around the blocks until it hit him that no, Jim wasn’t making a fool of him. Jim was very carefully, with practiced expertise, dodging as much CCTV as possible. All the time typing on his phone. He guided them to the underground parking of a shopping center where they had a row about leaving the bike behind and switching vehicles. It only ended with Jim exasperatedly swearing to god and all saints that he would have someone retrieve the bike in the hour. He then proceeded to a broom locket that he unlocked with a shrug (‘That kind of storage room key gets lost all the time.’) to reveal a stash of various clothes and utility items and products. He tossed a scarf and coat to Sebastian before cleaning as much blood as possible from the visible parts of his body.

They went up the ground level of the market, mixed in the crowd and hailed a cab. The fact they did not pay the cabby or that said cabby definitely was the blond girl from the hanger tipped Sebastian to the kind of organization Jim could throw into action in a few minutes and couple texts.

They arrived at an undescriptive apartment complex and Jim moaned about not giving a shit about anything until he cleaned up and just planted the soldier in the admittedly comfortable, in a sleek kind of way, living room.

Sebastian made himself at home, sinking into the couch. The place looked used. Not lived in. Nothing personal was adorning the grey, white and black surfaces. A laptop was askew the coffee table and a used cardboard paper cup was left on the counter.

In a couple of minutes, Jim was back, cleaned up of the blood but not of the blue bruise blooming on his upper cheek. He was clad in soft home wear trousers and a fitted tank top. He looked strangely calm, almost pacified as he walked up to Moran and bent over him, coursing his fingers on his upper chest before intertwining them in the chain of his dog tags.

"Now how shall we kill you, Moran? Hum?’ He asked idly.

\--

'Middle man' his arse, Jim apparently had enough power and enough resources to have people waiting for them less than half an hour after they'd escaped his flat. Really, Sebastian might have actually gotten himself into a deeper mess than he meant to. But Jim was interesting and fun and so far, Sebastian had no clue what was happening and goddamn he _loved_ it. As dumb as it was and even though half his instincts screamed at him to run away, the other half was biting at the lead, trying to get more and see more.

Now he was on this guy's couch, not even sure if this was a cover apartment or Jim's actual place (god, it was tasteful but _bland_ , all monotone and modern). He didn't offer to let Sebastian shower, oh nooo. They _both_ had gotten bloody (admittedly Jim got drenched), but apparently, Seb should just get used to it. Really, he didn't even care about that. Wearing strange clothes, sitting on the couch of a man who might fuck him or kill him or hire him. His mind was focused on more important things.

_His bike!_

Jim'd promised he'd send someone for it, but who can trust the words from the serpent's mouth? If someone stole it... fuck! He'd built that baby up from scratch, it was the only goddamn thing he gave a shit about in this world. Hell, it was the only thing his will (of course he had a will, he'd been 'asked' to make by the military) that he straight-up named to go someplace. The rest had been a bland, 'trash it, ship my body back to India and let me rot' kinda deal. If someone took his bike he'd flip!

Oh. Jim was back. Whoops, had gotten a bit lost in his thoughts. Kill him? What? But they'd had so much fun...! "Is my death for the wrist, the face, or for making you climb out a window?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. What was it that his mate Wings had said about him? ‘’Bastian doesn't flirt with death, he deepthroats the bitch's scythe in a parking lot'? Yeah, sounded like him. Pretty accurate right now too.

"How's this sound," Sebastian's hand came up, grabbing the wrist of the hand that started playing with his dog tags. A firm grip, running his thumb across the nerve in his wrist, pressure firm enough to be a reminder of the last time he'd held his wrist... before dislocating it. "Let's make it fun, long term. You like having fun, don't you, kitten?" He teased, tongue poking between his teeth as he tilted his head to look at Jim. "I'll start working for you, we'll dance around each other and flirt for a while, maybe a few more fucks. We'll both play hard to get and eventually you'll make me a bodyguard or something, I'll end up moving in. We'll get close and maybe you'll reveal that you can feel something other than pain and various levels of anger and irritation, I'll declare my eternal devotion. We'll become an unstoppable duo, and then five years later I'll wake up in the middle of the night with you straddling me with a knife and you'll cut my heart out and eat it. I _know_ it's a bit specific, but you did let me pick after all."

\--

Jim froze the moment Moran grabbed his wrist, apparently not enthralled by the idea of getting the still recovering joint popped again so soon. It was very close, in an absurd way, to how some little furry creatures played dead to get a better chance to escape their predator’s grasp.

“Easy there.” He seethed between clenched teeth. “Are you actually expecting answers from me or monologuing for the sake of it? Because if you are to work with me Sebastian, we’ve got to see stuff sorted out.” His brows raised in a -do I get my point across fashion-. “Namely the fact that some busy people are currently running themselves crazy to find you. We need to throw them off your scent. His eyes fell once more on his dog tags. “We could make sure they get properly convinced there is no reason to keep looking for you anymore.”

“I think nobody would be especially surprised to find a charred body with a smashed jaw rotting in the Thames. If said body happened to be tagged as former Colonel Sebastian Moran, would a lot of people cry for him?” He asked in a soft, inquisitive voice.

It was a proposition. The pressure, the drive that had colored every one of the words Jim had said to him was absent or at least covered. Jim was _offering_ to craft him a blank slate. And it was up to him to take the last dive.

\--

Ah. Not a threat then, an offer. Odd, really, he hadn't expected that. Sebastian tugged the wrist upwards, pressing a kiss to the bandaged spot. There was definitely something wrong with him, that he enjoyed seeing Jim freeze and give off that 'scared rabbit' energy. A combination of curiosity and interest and the fun that came from seeing the swirling colors of Jim's kaleidoscope personality change.

Would anyone cry for him? Years ago, Sebastian would have said yes. His father wouldn't; certainly not. If he cried, it would be at the loss of their last chance to continue their family line. His mother? Her mind had been weak after his brother died, it had snapped and crumbled after they tried for another child and she'd been stillborn. The last time he saw her, she had thought he was his father. She'd not cry for him, because she wouldn't understand. If his real family were alive, they would have cried. The family he forged in the foxholes and on desert treks and over countless years and missions.

Would _anyone_ cry for Colonel Sebastian Moran?

Maybe the landlady who wouldn't get his rent check anymore.

"You'll need to find a double for my bike. Anyone who knows me or watched me'll know that if it's missing then something's off." He dropped Jim's wrist, pulling the chain over his head. The warm metal in his hand, the familiar weight gone. It was odd, really, how naked and bare he felt without them around his neck. After wearing them for thirteen years, they had felt as much of a part of him as his own hands. Taking them off felt like he was removing a crucial facet of his identity, like he was baring his soul.

And why? Because some crazed fucker with great eyes and a ridiculous, overwhelming sort of aura of 'I'm in control' told him to? Christ, either he was going mad or he'd already gone mad. "No one'll cry. Burn the flat, nothing there I want anyway." He dropped the tags into Jim's outstretched hand, pale fingers curling around them.

It felt like selling his soul to the devil, and in a way, he was.

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare for trouble !  
> And make it double !  
> Back for a second co-written piece with Speculative Corvid and consistently interested in your feedbacks. You people are the blood and life of this fandom, and your messages make our little writers’ heart pump good and strong. With unrelenting love and appreciation,  
> UA


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